


Bet Your Mama Don't Know You Scream Like That

by IdMonster



Category: The Stand - Stephen King
Genre: 1970s, Asphyxiation, Choking, Clothed Sex, Drug Use, Frottage, M/M, Pre-Canon, creepy face touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 10:19:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15168557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdMonster/pseuds/IdMonster
Summary: Larry meets a producer with one hell of a casting couch.





	Bet Your Mama Don't Know You Scream Like That

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skazka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skazka/gifts).



“You gotta meet him,” some guy with long wavy hair and a disco shirt was saying. “Come on, he’s right over there.”

Larry Underwood ignored him. It was easy to do with the music blasting and people jostling around him, and easier given that his entire attention was on the hand mirror getting passed around, with lines of coke laid out like highways. With his big break as far in the distance as it had ever been, Larry had never been able to afford more than the tiniest snort. But this party, the good whiskey flowed like water and the coke was there for the taking. Larry wasn’t going to miss it.

He grabbed the mirror, his rolled-up five dollar bill (he didn’t have anything bigger) already waiting. Delicately, he applied it to his nose and snorted, moving it the long length of the line like a pro. It hit him like a big truck screaming down the freeway, lights blazing and horn blaring. 

A second later, it didn’t matter that he’d spent so long bouncing around California, shaking hands with assholes and playing to drunks who didn’t give a shit and never getting any closer to stardom than a handshake from someone’s assistant followed by “He’ll call you” followed by no call. He was Larry Underwood, future fucking rock star. He was a rock star right now. 

The wavy haired guy yanked on his sleeve, nearly spilling the last line. Before Larry could address himself to it, a pretty but predatory-looking blonde snatched the mirror from his hand and snorted it herself. 

With nothing better to do, Larry turned to Wavy Hair and snapped, “What?”

“Russell Fine,” the guy said, like Larry should know who that was. “The record producer from Columbia.”

Larry had never heard of him, but he’d been banging down Columbia's door for what felt like forever. And this _did_ seem like the kind of party where the hot shots would hang out. “He’s here?”

Wavy Hair nodded vigorously. “Said he wanted to meet you.”

He pointed. Larry looked across the crowded, raucous room. The noise seemed to fade out as he saw a dark figure sitting on a couch, his ankles negligently crossed and the worn soles of his cowboy boots upturned. His head was lowered, as if deep in thought, shadowing his face. In his boots and denim, he looked more like a country producer than anyone who’d be interested in the kind of music Larry made. But hey, the Stones had been into country—not that Nashville crap, the real deal—so maybe this Fine guy was looking to produce country-influenced roots rock, like _Beggars Banquet._

With the coke still electrifying his nervous system, Larry felt entirely equal to the task. Eagerly, he stood up and began to make his way to the producer.

The closer he got, the more his shoes began to drag on the shag carpet. The coke was rapidly draining from his system, leaving him jittery and vaguely depressed. What was the point of meeting one more glad-handing producer who’d feed him a line of bullshit and never call him again? He suddenly had no desire to meet this Fine guy. In fact, he had half a mind to turn around and walk away—not just from this meeting, but from the entire party. He worked hard and partied hard, but when did he ever get any actual rest? Maybe he should go home and get a good night’s sleep, just this once.

As Larry started to turn away, the dark man stood up and offered him his hand. “Larry Underwood! Great to meet you. I’m Russell Fine, from Columbia.”

Automatically, Larry shook his hand. A chill came over him, and he suddenly felt dead sober. He looked over Fine with the what’s-in-it-for-me canniness that had allowed him to spend years looking for his break without ever going so broke that he was forced to turn tail and slink home. 

Fine smiled pleasantly at him, his bright eyes sparkling. Worn boots and old denim aside—and success in the music industry did not correlate with expensive clothes—he had an air of power. This wasn’t some penniless but ambitious scrounger hoping to shepherd his favorite garage band to stardom, but a man accustomed to snapping his fingers and watching everyone scurry.

Larry didn’t like looking into his eyes. For all their glittering brilliance, there was something dead about them, like a shark’s. His gaze dropped to Fine’s denim jacket, which was studded with buttons. _I am not Paul Avery_ , black letters on white. _I love a CLEAN New York_ , white letters on red. Bugs Bunny in an Uncle Sam hat, with _GREAT AMERICA_ in red and blue letters on white. But the one that fascinated Larry was a huge close-up of Mick Jagger, sensual lips pursed in invitation, scrawled over with a bold and illegible hand.

“Is that his signature?” Larry asked.

“It is indeed. He signed it for me at Altamont. I was hoping to sign _him_ , but, alas, he was the one who got away.” Fine’s laugh was oddly high, almost a giggle. “But I hope not to let _you_ get away, Larry! I’ve had my eye on you for a while.”

He patted the couch, inviting Larry to sit beside him. It was a small sofa, more like a loveseat; as soon as Larry sat, he felt uncomfortably close. But he pushed that feeling aside. In his experience, the bullshit rolled out when he was approaching producers, not the other way around. Why would Fine bother sending his flunky out to fetch him just to yank his chain? It didn't make sense unless Fine was for real. And if he was, he was making one hell of a play for Larry. The sharpest thing Larry could do was let him.

“Did someone send you my demo?” Larry asked.

“They did. The production was a little rough—the bass, especially—but the songwriting was solid. Your voice is good. And your composition is more than good. Some of it was even…” Fine’s eyes gleamed, and he smiled in a way that invited Larry to share in the joke that wasn’t really a joke. “… _catchy_. And as you probably know, in my business catchiness is prized above rubies.”

“Catchy” wasn’t exactly how Larry wanted to be remembered. The Oscar Mayer wiener jingle was catchy. But he reminded himself that he was talking to a producer. Fine would probably praise “Thunder Road” as catchy. And Fine obviously knew his stuff. 

“Thanks,” Larry said. “You’re right about the bass. Jerry’s a cokehead, and he was coming off a two-week jag when we cut the demo. I wanted to redo the bass, but I couldn’t afford any more studio time.”

“I can afford it.” Fine settled in a little closer, so their thighs were touching. On purpose? Larry tried to unobtrusively move away, but there was no room. Had _that_ been on purpose? 

Larry considered excusing himself to hit the john, then staying on his feet when he returned. But Fine seemed on the verge of offering him an audition—at Columbia, no less. Who knew what might happen if he broke the mood? No, he’d just play it cool and see where this went. 

“That would be our first step,” Fine went on. “Bring you in for an audition. I’d set you up with some very professional studio musicians. Maybe do a new song or two, if you’ve written any since.”

Very deliberately, Fine reached out and caressed Larry’s cheek. Larry only barely stopped himself from flinching away. 

So, it was like that. Well—why not? It wasn’t like Larry had never messed around with a guy at a party before. Fine wasn’t anyone he’d have chosen of his own free will ( _those dead glittering eyes, like a shard of glass under a bare foot_ ), but what was a fuck or few on the casting couch compared to who knows how many more years in the trenches, or maybe never breaking in at all? 

“Yeah, I have some new songs. You’d like them. They’re _catchy._ ” Larry made himself smile and put his own hand on Fine’s thigh. “Want to talk it over more in private? There’s got to be a bedroom somewhere.”

He stood up without giving Fine a chance to agree, then realized that he’d done it largely because he wanted the man’s hand off his face. But as they walked off in search of a bedroom, Larry wished to hell that he hadn’t suggested it. Sure, it wasn’t like he’d had much choice—he was obviously going to have to cement the deal with a fuck—but did he have to do it _right now?_

“This looks as private as it gets around here.” Fine indicated what had to be the master bedroom. 

“Great.” Larry tried to sound enthusiastic. He didn’t like the idea of locking himself alone in a room with Fine. Then again, it wasn’t as if anything could happen. The bedroom was right off the living room. If anything… happened… Larry could always just stand up and go. 

_Or scream,_ a little voice inside his head suggested. That was ridiculous, of course. Men don’t scream for help because… Well, why _would_ he? He’d agreed to this deal.

Fine closed the door and gestured to the big circular bed. Uneasy, Larry sat down. It rippled and gave beneath him. Of course. A fucking waterbed.

His footsteps silenced by the thick carpet, Fine approached the bed. But instead of sitting or lying down on it, he remained standing, looming over Larry. Then, slowly, he unbuckled his belt and pulled it off. Larry had never been less turned on in his life. But hey, if he was giving the blow job, he didn’t have to be. A few quick minutes, and he’d be done with it.

But Fine didn’t unzip his pants. Instead, he threaded the end of the belt back through the buckle, making a loop, and lifted it. Bewildered, Larry just sat there for a second before he realized that Fine was about to drop it over his head. 

A wave of icy fear went through Larry. He lunged backward. The waterbed gave beneath him, dumping him on his back. Before he could scramble out of the way, Fine leaned over and pinned his shoulders. Larry fought, trying to bring up his knees, but Fine stepped forward, pinning Larry’s legs against the side of the bed with his own thighs. Larry struggled, but he had no leverage with his back against the rippling, shifting mattress. And Fine was strong. Very strong.

“Hey!” Larry gasped. “Wait, no! What’re you doing?”

“I have a very special treat for you.” Fine’s eyes gleamed with happiness. His cheeks were flushed with it. He sounded positively jolly as he went on, “Did you know that if you choke a man during sex, he’ll have the most intense orgasm of his life? Or death. There’s an old story that when condemned criminals were hanged in the public square, they came as they strangled to death. Their seed fell upon the earth, and from that sprang up a plant called the mandrake. Its root looks like a withered human body, and it’s both a hallucinogen and an aphrodisiac. And, in larger doses, a poison. Isn’t that fascinating?”

“No!” Larry fought again, furious and frightened, but he was pinned in place. He couldn’t budge Fine by so much as an inch. It was like trying to lift a truck over his head. “Fuck this casting couch of yours! I don’t want it, you hear me? Get the fuck off me!”

“What sort of man agrees to get fucked, just for a chance at paltry fame?” Fine made a tsk-tsk noise with his tongue. “You’re a a whore, Larry. We both know that. We’re only dickering about your price. So, how much will it be? Are you raising it now? Not just an audition and a chance at fame, but the thing itself? A coast-to-coast sensation—a hit single hummed by the entire world?” 

Larry’s entire body burned hot with shame. He _had_ agreed to get fucked for a chance at fame. Not like this, but he had agreed. What sort of man _was_ he? 

Fine yanked both Larry’s arms up over his head and pinned his wrists with one hand. Then he once again began to lower the looped belt over Larry’s head.

Terror jolted through Larry, even stronger than the shame that had stopped him from screaming before. No longer caring if the whole damn party caught him getting fucked by a man, he yelled, “Help! HELP! Somebody, get in here!”

“The mandrake root,” Fine said, in a tone like a teacher reminding a student of something obvious that they’d forgotten. “I put the teeniest sprinkle in the coke. Half of them can’t hear you at all, and the other half only hear the beautiful voices of angels singing—well, more likely the ghastly voices of devils shrieking, but whatever they hear, it won't be you.”

Larry believed him. He’d been yelling enough before, and no one had opened the door. But he fought anyway, out of sheer irrational panic, until the leather belt was yanked over his head and pulled tight. Then he lay still, trying to pant though each breath was stopped short by the belt around his throat. He was afraid that if he fought any more, Fine would tighten it, or his own struggles would force it taut.

Exhausted, Larry lay still as Fine began to rub against him. He was completely unsurprised to feel the bastard’s erection—of course a psycho like him would get off on fucking twisted shit like this—and waited in fearful resignation for it to be over. But he was shocked when he felt himself starting to get hard. He couldn’t be enjoying _this_ —

“Of course you are,” Fine said pleasantly, thrusting harder. Larry squirmed, willing his own hard-on to subside, but that only made it grow. “That’s the sort of man you are. A degraded person who gets off on degradation. A teaspoon of talent and a heaping cup of selfishness—naturally you’d sell yourself for success, and naturally you’d need to. But it takes a very special type of person to _enjoy_ it.”

 _“I don’t!”_ Larry wanted to shout. But he _was_. No, he wasn’t, he was just reacting to the physical stimulation. He couldn’t help it. 

_“I guess you just can’t help it,” his mother had sighed, time after time when he’d disappointed her. “I guess that’s just who you are.”_

“It’s who you are,” Fine said. “Might as well enjoy it. Not everybody could.”

He pulled the noose tighter as he thrust harder. Larry’s vision began to darken. His chest hurt. The world's loudest drum pounded in his ears. He fought again, hopelessly and helplessly, until a shattering burst of sensation, too intense to be either pleasure or pain, broke him apart into nothingness and dark. 

 

He woke up face-down, suffocating. Instinctively, he rolled over on to his back. The waterbed heaved nauseatingly beneath him. Gasping, he flung himself off the bed, and landed on the carpet on his hands and knees, his head throbbing and his vision swimming. 

Fine was gone. Larry was alone in the room. He staggered to the bathroom, yanking off his clothes with a shudder, and stood under the shower until the water ran cold. Even so, he didn’t feel clean.

When he got out and looked into the mirror, he saw a black band around his throat, a sign proclaiming his true self for all to see: 

_Whore._

_Sell-out._

_We’re just dickering about the price._

Well, everyone _didn’t_ have to see it. Larry rummaged in the closet until he found a turtleneck. He pulled it on, arranged the collar to hide the bruise, and went out.

The living room was empty except for a few passed-out people on the sofa and floor. In the kitchen, a few friends and a few strangers sat around the table, staring in glum silence at a bottle of Anacin. They all looked as wretchedly hungover as Larry. A coffee pot percolated on the counter, and several of them winced at every bubble. 

“Fucking bad trip,” Jerry muttered. "That coke was cut with some bad shit." 

Larry was relieved but unsurprised that Fine was nowhere in sight. And neither, come to think of it, was Wavy Hair. "Hey, there was a guy last night with long, wavy brown hair, wearing a disco shirt with a big collar. Who was he?"

"I heard him talking," Wayne volunteered. "Weird dude. He said he was going to be on 'The Dating Game' and we all needed to watch it. I think his name was Ron... No, Rod. Rod Something Spanish." He shrugged.

"And a guy with cowboy boots and a denim jacket with a Mick Jagger button," Larry said. "Any of you know him?" 

Everyone shook their heads. It seemed like no one even remembered him. A heavy certainty like wet cement filling Larry's belly, he grabbed the phone book from the stand, looked up Columbia Records, and dialed. “Russell Fine, please.”

“I’m sorry,” the receptionist said. “We don’t have anyone by that name working for us.”

Larry hung up. He’d already known; he’d never have called if he’d thought there was a chance that he’d be put through.

“Who’s that?” Jerry asked.

“Some scammer who claimed he worked at Columbia,” Larry said. “I gave that asshole my last handful of reds! That should’ve tipped me off—a real producer would’ve given _me_ drugs.”

Everyone laughed. Larry sat down and poured himself a cup of black coffee. His throat still hurt, but he knew better than to touch it. He knew better than to _think_ about it. A few days of turtlenecks and not looking in mirrors, and the bruises would be gone. And then he’d just never think about it again. In fact, he’d start not thinking about it right now. He’d do what always distracted him from his problems, what he’d come west to do: make some music. 

Larry tapped his fingers on the table, trying to come up with a rhythm. 

Ta-ta… TA-ta… TA-ta, ta-ta-ta-ta-ta…

 _BAY-bee… Baby, ta-ta-ta-ta-ta_ …

He hummed along to the tune, all else forgotten. Yeah. That was a good beat. Catchy.

**Author's Note:**

> The staff of the San Francisco Chronicle wore "I am not Paul Avery" buttons after Avery, a reporter at the paper, received a Halloween card from the Zodiac Killer reading "Peek-a-boo, you are doomed."
> 
> Wavy-haired California serial killer Rodney Alcala was a contestant on The Dating Game.


End file.
